He gives a shrug. ‘It’s not unknown.’
‘We’ll have all the sledges then.’ I’d love snow so much, I’m not even daring to think about it, so I’m moving this on. The thing is, for me, in a world where lately it feels like nothing can be relied on, Christmas is the one certainty I can cling onto. I know the recipe to make Christmas work. Other things spiral out of control and my life comes crashing down. But so long as I have enough lamella and berries, I should be able to win with Christmas and everyone else will get the benefit.
‘It’s a simple equation – the more glitter you throw at Christmas, the more enjoyment you get back. Name meanythingelsethatsure to pay off?’
He shoves a couple of galvanised buckets at me. ‘It’s an awful lot hanging on one day. And it’s notthathealthy to bethisobsessed with perfection.’
I have an answer for that. ‘Unless you’re talking gin.’ It’s a stab in the dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.
‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’
I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’
There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’
‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.
